Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

His lips twist into a sneer as he mutters, “I hate you.”

I roll my eyes. “Well the feeling is mutual, you gigantic assho—"

His lips crash into mine.

Briefly, I ponder string theory.

Because you see, the Gwen in any other universe would be so shocked, so grossed the hell out, that she’d probably vomit all over his dumb, wet, obnoxiously perfect mouth. Probably, she’d knee him in the balls. Likely, she’d screech and shove him away. Whatever she’d do in that other universe—the Alternate Universe of Sense-Making—it definitely wouldn’t be this.

I’m wholly unprepared for the jolt that runs through me—this spike of white-hot, senseless want that consume me so forcefully, I actually whimper against his mouth.

His mouth, what the actual hell, warm and soft and hard, all at once.

Lost in the hot, confusing tangle of it all, I’m only vaguely aware of him releasing my hands, but I feel it like a lightning bolt when he shifts his grip, one clutching my hip while the other winds itself in the hair at the base of my neck, pulling our bodies flush.

An inkling of sense manages to make it through the fog, long enough for me to be aware that he’s not pinning me anymore. I should definitely run. Or like, that whole ‘kneeing him in the balls’ thing that Alternate Universe Gwen was so fond of? That’s pretty good. I should totally do that. I should escape.

I do none of those things.

Instead, I part my lips and deepen the kiss, hitching a breath when our tongues finally meet. My spine does something weird and liquid when he licks into my mouth, all slickness and heat and sharp edges.

My hands glide over his chest, exploring the hard muscles from years of intense competitive swimming. He feels solid, hot and alive. Not like a cold-hearted demon, at all. From here, all pressed against his skin, our tongues sliding together, I can feel his pulse beneath my palm.

It’s racing.

Just like mine.

His abs jump when I graze his taut lower belly, and his groan sounds ragged at the edges, like it’s being torn from his chest. He surges forward in response, hips pushing mine into the lockers, and there’s no mistaking the length of him against my belly, hard and eager and willing. I gasp into his mouth at the feel of it, going still.

He jerks back.

His eyes are hooded and glazed, but I can still see the creep of hysteria in them, and I know that—for the first time maybe ever—me and Hamilton Bates are on the exact same page.

This has gone too far.

Way too far.

Actually, it passed ‘too far’ a hundred miles back and is now crossing an Atlantic-sized ocean of weird.

The door to the locker room suddenly creaks, and it’s like an ice-cold bucket of water. Our eyes widen and I freeze, trapping a tense breath in the pit of my chest. The sound of distant, shuffling footsteps fills the room, right before the lights go off. Darkness shrouds us, but only briefly, before the bright ‘exit’ signs above the doorways on either side of the room bathe us in a buzzing ominous red.

Shakily, Hamilton exhales, and I follow. I feel his chest dip under my hands, but my pulse fills my ears until I can hear little else. If we’re caught like this… Hamilton Bates and Gwendolyn Adams? Obviously, the consequences would be unbearable.

Our eyes meet, the knowledge of that truth passing between us. What would the Devils say? Oh god, how would I explain this to my family? To Sky?

The betrayal drops like a stone in my belly. “I won’t tell,” I whisper, although I’m not sure why.

Then, as fast as this all started, it ends.

He jumps back, swatting my hands away. “Go,” he says in a low, rough voice. “Just get the hell out of here.”

I stare at him owlishly for a long, suspended moment, fighting the impulse to touch my abused lips.

His responding glare is probably meant to intimidate me, but it’s a bit dampened by the way he reaches down to adjust himself in his shorts. “What the fuck do you want, Adams? Go! I told you, I hate you. I hate everything about you. You’re ugly. You’re stupid. Your sister is a goddamned whore.”

The insults that spill from his mouth are limp, like he’s just pulling from muscle memory at this point, but the last one is enough to finally shake some sense into me.

I slap my palms onto his bare chest and shove. Clearly caught off guard enough to lose his footing, the back of his knees slam against the bench, toppling him backwards. While he’s down, I grab my bag and leave, putting as much distance between me and Hamilton Bates as I possibly can.